Imagining Things
by FeanorusRex
Summary: Nerdanel is very bad at dealing with feelings, and Fëanor shows her something he's made. Cover image drawn by me.


There was no specific Vala who governed love.

It was Yavanna, said married couples, the giver of fruits and of children too, it was believed. Others, in the midst of chasing there beloved would say that it was Oromë, the lord of the hunt, of passionate determination. It is Nienna, the unlucky or scorned in love would say, for love is sorrow and pain, mourning for things never to be. Those who were newly, mutually in love would say no, that it was Nessa, the dancer, for love animated the limbs and made the soul free and light.

Nerdanel wished that there was a clear answer so that she could alternatively pray to and curse whoever had so cruelly smote her with this horrible, unwanted love for Fëanor, Fëanor of all people to be in love with! Perhaps it was not the work of a devious Vala, perhaps she herself was to blame, although she certainly did not want to feel this way, and could not see what he had done to deserve this or bring it about. As it was, she prayed to all of them to deliver her from feeling like this.

And yet she did. One moment she and Fëanor were friends as usual, and then there had been some ghastly change, and she had begun to be attracted to him. Everything about him, his looks, voice, and mannerisms, things that she had never noticed before were now beautiful and endearing to her.

And it was so stupid, the way that she became so distracted at the motion of his slender hands as he described his latest project. So stupid, and yet she was stuck with these feelings, causing her blood to heat and her mind to cease functioning whenever he was around. Her pale skin blushed easily, which had never been a problem before since she was at ease with Fëanor before, but now she constantly felt like her face was on fire.

Nerdanel had once laughed at those who lost their minds in love, vowing that if she fell in love she would be the same, not completely witless, and now…

Now here she was, expending so much mental energy on both their interactions and analyzing them afterwards, realizing after, too late what foolish things she had said. Nerdanel thought of him constantly. Even when she worked in the forge she was not free; his work table was behind hers, and she wondered what he was doing most of the day, she wondered if he ever looked at her, but since she was in front, she could not turn her head back too often without being obvious. She took to braiding her hair as intricately as she could, for while she could not safely wear it down, perhaps Fëanor would notice this.

Or perhaps he would not, Nerdanel thought, on their journeys as they lie sleeping, on the same ground, close enough to be tantalizing to her, but not close enough to mean anything. Perhaps this was all in her head, what she thought she had observed, the remarks that could be flirting, or could be nothing. She was imagining things, maybe, maybe not. Fëanor was so difficult to read, especially when her judgement was clouded by passion, and perhaps his actions that Nerdanel thought might possibly indicate interest in her was crafted to fit what she wanted it to be.

She thought about her looks now- another new feeling. Nerdanel knew that her features were not considered pretty, but this had never troubled her before. As an artist she knew that beauty was an elusive concept, and that something considered gorgeous by some was judged nothing by others. Nerdanel liked what she saw in the mirror well enough, but did it match what Fëanor thought of as beautiful? She often was grimy with soot, or sweat, or stone dust, and could not imagine that he found her beautiful then. She had no idea what he even found attractive, they never talked about love, or marriage, or anything to do with romantic interests before, and she was too shy to bring it up now.

Even her art was effected. The shapes that her besotted fingers created dealt with love too, but luckily the were too abstract for anyone to guess at their meanings. Except her, she knew what they meant, and it annoyed her that they looked nice, because she did not want her creativity to come from infatuation.

Being in love was horrible, it was awkward and worrisome and time consuming and stressful. Nerdanel wished that she could chisel away her feelings with one blow, an erroneous bit of stone removed from a statue, leaving it perfect. But these emotions were messy, and could not be removed, and they infuriated her.

It was not all absolutely terrible though, she admitted grudgingly. Today, for example, Nerdanel was posing for him, as he wanted to create her likeness in clay for practice. Clay was a more forgiving medium than stone, although she preferred the latter as it provided a smoother finish, and did not require firing in a kiln, where it could crack before painting.

Fëanor using her as a model did not necessarily indicate interest in her, Nerdanel had decided eventually, for apprentices in the forge often used their friends as models, but he did touch her face once, tilting her head to a slightly different angle, his fingers warm against her cheek, leaving a trace of clay behind, and the breathlessness she experienced as a result of this could not be described as bad, exactly.

Fëanor then brushed her hair away from her neck, it was lossed today, and she thought it either made her look like a fire spirt or like a wild animal, hopefully the first. She shivered slightly, and unfortunately he noticed and jerked his hand away at once, mistaking her movement for disgust, and sitting back down to resume sculpting. _Fantastic,_ Nerdanel thought, _now he thought that she did not want to be touched, and there was no subtle way to tell him otherwise._ She was very bad at all of this.

Nerdanel was quiet as she sat. Though she liked being around him more than ever, her mind was now empty of things to actually say. At least his silence was because he was working, not out of boredom or disinterest with her. The project was only a bust, head and shoulders, and she was glad that he had asked her to model for him first, so it would not be odd if she asked him to return the favor. Then Nerdanel could study Feanor's face to her heart's content, without drawing suspicion, although she was not sure how well she would be actually be able to concentrate on sculpting. It was a clever plan nonetheless- her wits were not entirely gone.

"There," said Fëanor, setting down the tool he was using to make indentations in the clay. Nerdanel, being an artisan herself knew that no work was every done the first time the artist declared it so, and that he would continue to make alterations, but she hopped off her stool anyway, stretching her back which had been still all the time that she posed, and circled the table to look. It was a very good likeness, not just in the physical details and proportions, but in the way that this shaped bit of clay, molded to look like her, seemed to capture her spirit. "You will be better than me at sculpting, if you keep producing work like this."

"Do you feel threatened now, o greatest sculptor?"

"I said if, if you keep producing this kind of work," she said, the 'greatest,' causing a warm feeling in her chest, even if it was only said in joking banter and untrue besides.

Instead of a comeback, Fëanor shrugged and said, "I have been working on something, it is a bit odd but- would you like to see?" An odd change of subject, Nerdanel noted. Did Fëanor want her to stay? Did he wish to be in her company because he craved being around her, like she did him? Or was she just…imagining things, Nerdanel thought again, for the thousandth time.

Whatever, if he had meant to do that if had worked and she was interested. "Yes, I do." Fëanor swept a portion of his table clear, spread a paper, and began to mark it with a stick of charcoal. The paper under his hands began to be covered with sweeping curves, dots, and titled vertical slashes above straight lines. Some of them bore a resemblance to the letters of the alphabet, but others were utterly foreign, like nothing she had seen.

"It is an alphabet, well the beginnings of one anyway. Like Rumil's but my own."

"You just made up letters?" It had never occurred to Nerdanel that such a thing could be done but was that not how all languages and writing began?

"Some of it comes from Rumil's of course, but I added letters, and tried to devise methods to ease the writing and prevent confusion." It was beautiful. Any word could be written in this script and look graceful, no matter its meaning.

"I love it," Nerdanel said. Inventing a new letter system must have been difficult, but it was also ingenious and such a Fëanor thing to do. "Show me how to write my name please." He demonstrated, writing the word so quickly that is seems as if he had written it many times before, but that could not be- he must just know his invention well. Her name was rendered in a neat line of loops, some of them dotted with other symbols above. "So which letter is which?"

Fëanor wrote the corresponding letters under his, explaining the placement of the vowels over the proceeding consonants. "Now you try," he said, handing the charcoal stick to her.

Nerdanel took it, but these markings were unfamiliar and she did not know which strokes to make first. Her version looks like his, more of less, but it was more laborious to write. "Here," Fëanor said, examining her attempt. "It is easier if you put the vowels on over the letters as you go, rather than adding them at the end. He reached over her hand with his and guided them both across the paper. Nerdanel was very concious of his arm around her, for she had been writing with her right hand and he was on her left, so of course he had to reach around her to guide her hand. However practical explanations did not slow her heart's much increased speed.

"What are you going to do with this system of writing?" Nerdanel turned her head as she asked this, but found that they were almost nose to nose as Fëanor bent over the paper and dropped her gaze at once.

"I do not know. Maybe nothing."

"You should not let it go to waste like that, incorporate it into your forge works maybe."

"Well, I have shown it to you so it is not wasted."

"You could do so much with this, imagine if all of Valinor used this!" Nerdanel continued, missing his remark.

"Who would?"

"I would. Will you teach me all of it?" Their hands became covered in charcoal as he did. It was easier than using ink, but messier. Nerdanel noted that she still like the look of Fëanor's hands when they were covered in charcoal, and maybe he thought the same about hers, but no, her hands looked the same as always, pale, and freckled, with an added layer of black grit.

Fëanor told her to practice the writings on her own, and she did. Alone in her room she wrote, 'I love you, I love you,' over and over, and their names together with no space in between. Afterwards, she burned the paper, embarrassed at her folly. They curl up into ashes; her feelings for him remain.


End file.
